


Completely Amazing

by SherlocksScarf



Series: No Heart For Me Like Yours [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksScarf/pseuds/SherlocksScarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. Companion piece to <span class="u">Always The Last To Know.</span> - same story told from Sherlock's POV. Sherlock examines his feelings for John. Sherlock/John. Preslash/Slash.</p><p>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/>"In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours. In all the world, there is no love for you like mine."<br/>– Maya Angelou<br/>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Absolument fantastique](https://archiveofourown.org/works/435777) by [Hanako_Hayashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanako_Hayashi/pseuds/Hanako_Hayashi)



> This fic has been translated to French by the lovely Hanako_Hayashi. See link above.  
> Traduction française par la belle Hanako_Hayashi. Voir lien ci-dessus.
> 
> Please read and review!
> 
> _"The best thing in life is finding someone who knows all your mistakes and weaknesses and still thinks you are completely amazing."_  
>  – Amanda Talrey

 

_oOoOo _

** Chapter 1 **

**_ "Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you I had no control over." _ **

– **_Unknown_**

_ oOoOo _

The first time I met John Watson I almost allowed my gaze to pass him over. That thought is enough to make me break out into a cold sweat now – I came so close to missing him. But how could I have known, at first glance, that this gentle, unassuming man would become the most important thing in the world to me – and the most enigmatic?

Mike Stamford had been nattering on at me that morning about the cost of living in London. I was largely focused on examining a soil sample under a microscope, barely letting his chatter permeate my consciousness. Stamford is alarmingly gregarious, a man who would probably make conversation with a dustbin if there was no one else available. ( _Of course, in terms of brainpower, Stamford and the bin would probably be well-suited._ ) Therefore he persisted in asking questions, forcing me to continue the conversation.

Somehow my recent selection of 221B Baker Street as a possible accommodation came up, and Stamford, determined to be "helpful," suggested that I find a flatmate to share the rent. In order to shut him up ( _not likely_ ) I stated that it would be difficult to find someone who would be willing to share a flat with me. Fortunately, he was scheduled for office hours, so he finally ended the conversation and left me in peaceful solitude.

I had moved on to mould spores ( _traces of stachybotrys chartarum would be proof that my client was innocent_ ) when Mike Stamford returned with a visitor. I spared him a brief glance, noting that he was recently returned home from military service, not really adapted back to civilian life, that he had eaten a rather sad meal of beans on toast for breakfast, and that he had been injured in the war. _Nothing special_ , I thought.

Dear God. John Watson, _nothing special_. Hardly.

Needing to send a quick text to Lestrade to confirm that he should arrest the brother of his latest murder victim ( _the green ladder would definitely link him to the scene_ ), I asked Mike to lend me his phone, using the patently false excuse of lack of signal for mine. Really, I couldn't be bothered to retrieve mine from my coat pocket across the room, but people get so touchy about that, insisting on perceiving it as laziness instead of conserving my valuable resources. It's easier to blame technology failure. Mike had left his phone, so I sighed, preparing to rise and get my own phone, when John Watson said, "Here, use mine."

Generosity is always surprising to me. The idea of going out of one's way for another person is so strange – why bother? People who deliberately choose to do something helpful for a stranger always intrigue me a bit, as it seems so foreign to me. What is to be gained by altruism?

So, when John offered his mobile, with no reason for helping me that I could see, I glanced at him again, cataloguing more details about him. And upon closer examination, I was fascinated by what I saw. His intelligence was obvious at a glance ( _Army doctor, decorated for bravery, clearly he can think quickly in dangerous situations_ ), and his stance indicated a deep reserve of backbone ( _no vacillating jellyfish, this one – he knew who he was and where he stood_ ).

What was unexpected to me was a quiet dignity and depth that almost concealed that enormous strength. His hazel eyes seemed so deep, and the shadows there made me itch to find out more about his past. I also couldn't help but notice that his compact frame was overlaid with well-balanced muscle ( _I'm only human, despite what they might believe at Scotland Yard_ ). The weathered, tanned skin on his face and hands made me wonder how the skin on the rest of him looked, and I felt an unaccountable desire to unbutton the next three buttons of his ridiculous checked shirt to see how much hair was on his chest.

Discomfited by the slight heat I felt building in my lower belly ( _and the lack of self-control that reaction indicated_ ), I asked him, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" When those clear eyes met mine, I felt a strange jolt, as though I had received a low-grade electric shock. Molly's arrival with coffee was a huge source of relief to me, as it provided a much-needed distraction.

"How do you feel about the violin?" I hastily began gathering my belongings, wanting to be sure of a quick getaway. John frowned, so I clarified by offering a few more details about my bad habits, then hastened to describe the flat in Baker Street. It was obvious that Mike had brought him because of my comment earlier about a lack of unwilling flatmates. I found myself wanting to know this quiet army doctor better, and the flat-share excuse seemed a heaven-sent opportunity – even though I actually had no need of a flatmate. ( _I live off of a sizeable trust fund._ ) I rattled off a few more details, then hastened toward the door, making an excuse about needing to fetch my riding crop.

"Is that it?" John's question stopped me in my tracks. Perhaps I had rushed out too hastily. "We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat?"

"Problem?" I raised my eyebrows at him inquiringly.

"We've only just met, we don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

Right. How to convince this fascinating man to want to come look at the flat? His ( _oh, so enigmatic_ ) eyes had glinted with intrigue when I asked about Afghanistan – perhaps I could use his curiosity about my deductive skills to lure him in.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

I turned to leave the room, then leaned back to fire a parting shot.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."

Those wide hazel eyes met mine with amazed fascination, and it sent another little electric jolt through my belly. It so startled me that before I knew what I was doing, I had _winked_ at him. _Me_. Sherlock Holmes. Winking in a decidedly flirtatious manner.

Less than five minutes with this man, and I had already lost control of myself. That simply _never_ happens to me. I must get to know him better.


	2. Chapter 2

_ oOoOo _

** Chapter 2 **

" ** _Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable… It hurts. Not just in the imagination.  
Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love." _**

– **_Neil Gaiman_**

_ oOoOo _

_  
_

The first evening I spent with Dr. John Watson was a revelation to me. Here was this fascinating man, and he seemed to be equally fascinated by me. Every ridiculously simple deduction I made seemed absolutely enthralling to him. He watched me explain my deductions, mouth slightly agape, that deliciously pink tongue running over his lower lip, with a decided sparkle in his eye. He punctuated the pauses in my statements with, "Brilliant!" or "Amazing!" While it might have been a bit over the top, I was certainly enjoying the attention. No one ever seems to appreciate my explanations, so this was a novelty.

The thing that was most exciting to me about John, though, was his willingness to listen. After a lifetime of people getting angry, defensive, irritated, hostile…it was such a relief to find those wonderfully expressive eyes gazing at me in abject fascination.

Then he came on to me.

There was no mistaking his interest, particularly when he awkwardly steered the conversation around to relationships. We were sitting at Angelo's, in the front window. The candle Angelo had placed on the table ( _"it's more romantic")_ made John's eyes look almost amber-colored, instead of their usual hazel.

While we waited for John's entrée to arrive, we chatted easily, and I realized with a jolt that I couldn't get enough of this man. He was witty, charming, funny, and clearly had a decent brain between his ears. ( _Nearly everyone is an idiot, of course, but John was far less brainless than the majority of them.)_ I found myself more and more drawn to him, and observed him, looking for signs of interest in me.

Despite his protestations to Angelo ( _"I'm not his date!"_ ), it was quite obvious that he was attracted to me. He kept giving me flirtatious glances, licking his lips ( _really, could he be more blatant?_ ), and asking searching questions.

_ You don't have a girlfriend then? _

_ Girlfriend…no. Not really my area. _

A good sign.

_ Oh, right...do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way. _

_ I know it's fine. _

_ So you've got a boyfriend. _

_ No. _

_ Right, okay. You're unattached. Just like me. Fine, good. _

This was all going exactly as I had hoped – my interest was decidedly reciprocated. Magnificent. I felt warmth building at the base of my spine, a flicker of interest in my groin. I felt an astonishing urge to lunge across the table and taste those pink lips that he kept licking so nervously.

_ What the hell was happening to my self-control? _

And of course, I blew it. In a moment of panic at the heat building in my belly, I started to backpedal.

_... John, erm... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm really not looking for any-  _

_ No, no, that's not what I... no! I'm just saying... it's all fine. _

_... Good. Thank you. _

God. That was not how I intended to handle it. What was it about this quiet, little man that flustered me so?

  


oOoOo

  


The chase through the streets of London, trying to catch up to the cab, was amazing. John ran fleetly on my heels, laughing with exhilaration. When we finally caught up to the cab, I realized the passenger couldn't possibly be the suspect, and in my embarrassment over making a mistake in front of John, I told the confused passenger, "Welcome to London!" and turned away.

When John and I stopped to catch our breath, John began giggling madly. Another surprise – I would never have thought an army doctor would giggle like a delighted child. It was such a delightful sound, and yet I couldn't help but feel a moment of panic. Was he laughing at me? This is how it always starts – suddenly everyone's merriment is at my expense, and so very often, I don't even understand the cause.

My anxiety must have shown ( _another example of how much this man broke down my usual defenses, my facial expressions are normally under complete control)_ , because John giggled again, and said, "Sorry, it's just…'welcome to London.'" Then he went off into another paroxysm of laughter.

_ Oh.  _

He was laughing with me. Treating me as a friend. Not making fun of me, not laughing at my lack of social graces – he was including me in his warm, affectionate laughter. I found myself smiling back at him.

"Got your breath back, then?"

"Ready when you are."

And we ran again.

  


oOoOo

  


By the end of that evening, John had shot a man to save my life. By the time a month had gone by, John was absolutely indispensible to me and to my work. I simply loathed going on a case without him. His very presence worked to clarify my thinking, and he had an amazing ability to ask the right question at the right moment, opening a window to illuminate the obvious solution. His absolute faith in me seemed unshakeable. It was an incredibly heady feeling.

Unfortunately, the more time we spent together, the more I wished that I hadn't squashed his initial romantic overtures so firmly. He had learned his lesson from my response, and now he routinely denied to any and all who would listen that we weren't together, weren't involved, weren't on a date, etc.

Then I got an email from Seb Wilkes. There are times in my life that I have done my best to delete, and the time I spent with Sebastian Wilkes is a set of memories that stubbornly remains, despite my best efforts.

I spent my last term at university in a sexual relationship with Seb, and I must confess, I was somewhat obsessed with him. Unfortunately, it was a decidedly one-sided relationship, and Seb's emotional ( _and occasionally physical_ ) abuse made life a misery for me. People have a tendency to think of me as a machine, with no emotions whatsoever, and Seb was no exception. He seemed to enjoy humiliating me. His cruelty eventually drove me to leave university and take up a new, fascinating habit – cocaine.

So receiving an email from Seb Wilkes, asking for my help on a case, triggered a lot of old feelings in me. If it weren't for John's financial distress, I would never have responded, but this was a way that I could ease John's burden. I could claim that he had earned half of the substantial fee, and he would be secure for months.

When we entered Seb's office, all of the misery he had put me through came rushing back. I put on my coldest attitude, and pointedly introduced John as my friend. Seb's derisive snort seemed to trigger some odd reflex in John, and he barked out a correction of "colleague!"

The word lanced through me like a rapier. Clearly, John had learned the "married to my work" lesson far too well. How could I get him to see me the way he did that first night?


	3. Chapter 3

_ oOoOo _

** Chapter 3 **

" ** _A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love."_**

– **_Stendhal_**

oOoOo

  


The following evening, things got worse.

_ We're going out tonight. _

_ Actually, I've uh, got a date. _

_ What? _

_ It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun. _

_ That's what I was suggesting. _

_ No it wasn't…at least, I hope not. _

Clearly, John was trying to move past his fascination with me. Well, I would simply have to wait and see what came of it, and ruthlessly quash these ridiculous ( _romantic?_ ) notions about my flatmate. I was probably better off alone anyway.

Not very convincing. Must work on that.

  


oOoOo

  


Fortunately for me, John's dating life was not very successful. He went through a string of girlfriends, none lasting nearly as long as the useless Sarah, who John said broke up with him, "because she didn't like dating someone whose life was in danger on a regular basis." What a ridiculous excuse – John is at his most exciting when his life is in danger, and even a staid old cow like Sarah could surely observe cause and effect.

I must confess that I did my part at keeping the girlfriend situation unstable. If John seemed to be getting too enamored with a particular woman, I would find distractions for him in the form of cases, and he eagerly jumped at the chance to spend time with me, rather than the woman of the week.

How could he not notice the pattern? How could he not see how connected we were?

The puzzling thing to me was that, despite his obvious physical reaction to my presence, John seemed absolutely, steadfastly unaware of his attraction. Even in moments where we were squeezed together in a small space ( _hidden in a killer's closet when he returned unexpectedly, trapped together in a meat locker for over an hour_ ), John didn't seem to connect his increased pulse and respiration rates with my proximity.

I began to despair of his ever realising that we were meant for each other. I grew snappish, restless, miserable. I accepted more cases than ever, trying to stave off the misery of spending time with my steadfast _friend_ – who was apparently _only_ going to be a friend, nothing more.

  


oOoOo

  


Then it happened. Things began to shift. Maybe it was because of the incident at the pool. Maybe the case of Irene Adler had something to do with it. Whatever the cause, John seemed to readjust his focus, and to my delight, I found that I was often the subject of his interest.

I observed that John would often watch me when I was supposedly unaware of his gaze. When playing the violin, I made a point of playing the airs he enjoyed most, knowing that he was watching me closely. If I worked on an experiment in the kitchen, or paced restlessly around the flat, I would catch John staring at me, or sneaking glances my way.

Then I noticed that this happened most often when I wore my plum-coloured shirt, and that an extra button undone at the neck seemed to directly correlate to the amount of covert glances I received. I made a point of ordering two more identical shirts, just so those moments could happen more often.

John took to making requests when I was playing violin. He was only familiar with the most popular composers, such as Beethoven, Bach and Mozart. He seemed inordinately fond of Vivaldi, and despite my annoyance at such overplayed selections, I made a point of playing his favorite pieces as often as possible, simply to show him that I had noticed his preference. ( _My research indicated that people appreciate thoughtful gestures from potential partners._ )

Then came the afternoon on the footbridge at Regent's Park. We were walking back from a fairly simple case, nothing too extraordinary. ( _A curator trainee at the British Museum had succumbed to temptation, and attempted to fence an extremely valuable Qing Dynasty Vase in Prague._ ) John wanted to know how I knew about the Prague connection ( _ridiculously simple – I knew by one look at the curator's thumb that he had Czech connections_ ), so I was explaining the deductions I had made.

We paused on the footbridge, leaning on the rail. I subtly stepped a little closer to John, disguising the move by kicking a few leaves off the edge of the bridge. It was rather intoxicating to stand so close to John – I could smell the slightly spicy odor of his sandalwood soap, Earl Gray tea, and underneath a warm, woodsy smell that was just _John_.

As I spoke, gazing off over the lake, I realised that John was staring at me. I looked up from the glittering water, and our eyes met. I watched the reflected sunlight play over his amazing eyes, shifting their color from the usual hazel to a dark blue, then back to almost a tawny amber. John's eyes are like opals, like alexandrite – they are almost never the same color twice. His eyes are mirrors of his soul, deep and enigmatic. ( _Good God, I'm smitten._ )

We stood gazing at each other for what I know, intellectually, was probably only a few seconds. Yet somehow, it felt like time had stopped for a moment, and we were enclosed in a bubble, cut off from the world.

_ (Tell him. Tell him how you feel. This is the moment!) _

It wasn't. John broke the gaze, and after a moment to collect myself, I continued on with my explanation of the case, as though the moment had never existed.

But it did. It had to mean something. John was coming closer to discovering his attraction to me. Maybe patience was all that was needed.

Along with a little sabotaging of any potential girlfriends that might pop up, of course.


	4. Chapter 4

_oOoOo_

**Chapter 4**

" ** _If one wishes to know love, one must live love, in action_** ** _."_** ** __**

– ** _Leo Buscaglia_**

oOoOo

 

I observed John carefully, in the weeks following the conversation on the bridge. He no longer seemed to be interested in pursuing his ridiculous women, seemingly content to spend evenings at home in our flat, or at my side in pursuit of the criminal _du jour_.

I noticed that he seemed to be more concerned with my wellbeing, and although it was irritating, I allowed him to persuade me to eat or sleep on occasion. What it cost me in annoyance, it more than made up for in the pleasure of being the center of John’s attention.

I did my best to reciprocate, without being obvious, playing his favorite Vivaldi selections on my violin, finding as many exciting cases as I could to stimulate his interest. I even limited the number of body parts I kept in the refrigerator, even though it was inconvenient to restrict my experiments.

Still, it was quite frustrating. There seemed to be no way to nudge John toward taking our relationship in a new direction, unless I made a move. I was determined not to do so, because if I had read him wrong ( _one of the reasons I can’t get enough of John is that he often surprises me_ ), then I could ruin everything.

Things might have continued on in this ridiculous limbo indefinitely if it weren’t for _Anderson_ , of all people in the world. Standing over the body of an old man ( _poisoned, murdered for the life insurance_ ), I was pointing out the obvious clues that pointed directly to the subtle use of antifreeze in his cough syrup. John was staring at me, with that ( _sexy_ ) amazed expression he wears when I’m explaining my deductions.

When I ended my explanation, John exclaimed, “Brilliant!” and beamed at me, squeezing my upper arm in his enthusiasm. Again my self-control slipped ( _how does he do that to me?_ ), and I gripped his arms in return, smiling down at his obvious pleasure. For a single, shining moment, we stood gazing into each other’s eyes.

"Jesus, get a room, freak." Anderson's snide comment lanced across the moment, causing John to drop his hands in confusion. I immediately stepped back, and stared coolly at Anderson.

“I’m quite certain that you could recommend a suitable venue – you and Sergeant Donovan must know all of the local places that rent rooms by the hour.” Anderson flushed in anger, but I turned and swept from the room before he could reply. Smirking, John followed me.

 

oOoOo

 

For the rest of that evening, John seemed pensive. I immersed myself in an experiment in the kitchen, and gave him the room he clearly needed. To my delight, I could read many of his thoughts on his face. He looked at me often, when he thought I wasn’t observing him.

I watched his eyes take in the photo of the two of us ( _taken at the Scotland Yard Boxing Day party by an unusually affable Sally Donovan, clearly a bit worse for the punch_ ) that he had placed on the mantle. ( _In the photo, my arm is slung casually around John’s shoulders, and we are laughing. It’s unusual for me to be caught smiling by a camera. Again, I blame John’s influence on my self-control._ )

Next, his gaze roved to a police report I had “borrowed” from Lestrade, along with a pathetic excuse for a pathology report submitted by Anderson. When he looked back at me, there were deep frown lines between his eyes. It certainly wouldn’t take a genius of my caliber to recognize that he was struggling with questions about the constant innuendos that surround the two of us wherever we go.

Finally he stood up, stretching. His jumper rode up and exposed a strip of skin, along with his navel. ( _I could see the dusting of fine golden hair that thickened as it descended toward the button of his jeans. Oh…my._ ) My breath caught in my throat, but I managed to look back down at my petri dishes before he could catch me watching him.

“I’m headed to bed. G’night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

 

oOoOo

 

The following morning, John woke late, and dashed out to work at the surgery with a quick, “Late for work – I’m off out!” Ten minutes later, I got a text from Lestrade, and hastened off to assist Scotland Yard with their latest difficulty. The rest of my day was far too busy to dwell on my flatmate’s personal issues, so I dismissed thoughts of John from my mind.

The moment I left, though, he was right there in the forefront of my thoughts again. I decided that tonight might be a good night for another obviously thoughtful gesture from a potential partner, so I stopped in to pick up his favorite green curry and naan. To my surprise, he wasn’t back yet, so I deposited the takeaway in the fridge ( _on a “food-only” shelf, to prove my thoughtful potential partner status_ ), and picked up my violin.

I plunged into Stenhammer’s _Sentimental Romances Op28,_ which seemed like a good choice, considering my current feelings toward my absent friend. Perhaps playing would ease this longing that seemed to have no outlet. Bach’s _Chaconne_ was next, then Sibelius’ _Violin Concerto in D Minor, Op47_. When John had still not arrived home, I began to play his favorite, Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_ , as though perhaps I could play him home.

It didn’t work. He was gone all night. I had to assume that he had rekindled things with Sarah, or found another potential girlfriend. I slumped, exhausted, in my chair, and watched the sunrise filter cold light into the flat.

 

oOoOo

 

Heavy, limping footsteps alerted me to John’s return. Listening to the drag of his foot as he climbed the stairs, I wondered at his persistence in clinging to that psychosomatic limp. ( _His leg was hurting, I could smell lager, smoke and Sarah’s perfume – preliminary data would suggest that he must have spent the night with Sarah._ )

“Back with Sarah, John?” John started, clearly not expecting to see me. “I never pegged you as one for revisiting failed relationships. Did you spend the night on her sofa again?”

I looked up and met his eyes.

 

_Oh._

 

He looked exhausted, dark shadows beneath his eyes, lines of weariness etched across his ( _inexpressibly dear_ ) face. His gaze met my own, and the emotion in them was naked, raw. As he stood, wordless and helpless, I could see that he had not been at Sarah’s, or with any woman, but had spent a long, sleepless night wandering outdoors.

 

I stood, then walked slowly around John, taking in the mud on his shoes, the moisture from the fog that caused the hair around his ears to cling damply to his skin. “Sorry, I spoke too soon. It definitely wasn’t the sofa. You spent the night outdoors, walking in a park by the look and smell of you.” I reached out to rest my fingers gently on his left wrist, unobtrusively taking his pulse. He started at the contact, but didn’t pull his hand away. I saw his pupils dilate a fraction.

 

 _Excellent_.

 

“What has happened, John? Something has caused you great distress. Your dilated eyes, your tremor, even your colour tell me that you are feeling extreme anxiety.”

 

John shrugged off his jacket, using it as an excuse to break my gaze. “I had a difficult day yesterday. Sarah and I went out for a couple of pints, and then I walked around the park. I needed to clear my mind a bit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Sherlock, I’m truly knackered, and I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

 

I stood gazing at John for a long moment, seeing the longing in his eyes, the new and painful emotions that he clearly was not ready to process yet. It had waited this long – it could wait until he had rested. Surely that is what a considerate potential partner would say? I stepped back, nodded my head, and said, “Sleep well.”

 

oOoOo

 

Shortly after John retreated to his bed, I received another text from Lestrade. I hated to leave before finding out more about John’s obvious epiphany, but he needed the rest, so I headed to Scotland Yard once more. The case was a simple one, and we wrapped it up by midafternoon. Finally I was free to rush out and catch a cab back to Baker Street.

 

After paying the cabby, I rushed up the stairs to find John sitting unmoving in his armchair.

 

“John. You’re finally up.” I removed my coat and scarf, then settled myself on the sofa. _Time to be direct, and settle this thing._

 

“So what have you decided, then?”

 

“About what?” John gasped.

 

“About the issue that kept you awake and wandering the park all night, and kept you awake until midmorning. About the problem that has so consumed you that you are sitting here in the dark, no television, no book, just thinking. Thinking about whether or not to reveal your feelings to the object of your affection.”

 

“How did…what…you don’t…”  

 

“All very well put, John, with your usual concise logic, but I’d like to hear something more specific.” I smiled at him.

 

“How do you know what I’ve been thinking about?” John’s licked those ( _delectable_ ) lips, clearly anxious.

 

 _Oh, my_ dear _John._

 

“You are such an open book, John. Your every thought is written on your face, especially when it comes to affairs of the heart.” I shifted in my chair, leaning forward to meet his gaze forthrightly. “But seriously, John – what have you decided to do?”

 

John licked his lips again, and leaned forward as well. “What…what do you think I should do, Sherlock? How do I know if…if…the ‘object of my affection’ returns my feelings at all? This…person…has made it clear in the past that they were completely uninterested in a relationship. ”

 

_At last! He finally, finally realises what I have known for so long now. He wants me!_

 “Completely, John? This… _person_ …hasn’t dropped _any_ hints that the original position has changed?”

 

“How would I know?”

 

 _Wasn’t it more than obvious that I was head-over-heels for this ridiculous man? How could he not see it?_ I decided to give him one more chance to draw the right conclusion, before I simply seized him and snogged him senseless.

 

“You know my methods, John. Apply them.” I sank back onto the sofa, fingers steepled beneath my chin, waiting for John to solve the problem.

 

John tilted his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, and I waited for him to decide our fate. After a few minutes of silence, he raised his head, meeting my gaze. “I think I might have a possible solution to my problem.”

 

“Wonderful.” I leaned forward, watching John closely. “What’s the solution?”

 

“An experiment, Sherlock. If you’d indulge me?”

 

Oh, I loved it when he used my words to mock me. What would be cruel coming from another was gentle teasing from John. _He’s always so careful of my feelings._

 

John stood, stepped around the coffee table, and seated himself on the sofa beside me. Leaning forward, John stopped with only a few centimetres between our faces.

 

_Dear God, it’s happening! He’s going to…_

 

Slowly, John closed the gap between us, gently pressing his ( _surprisingly soft_ ) lips to mine in a tender, loving kiss. ( _At last! At last!_ ) I couldn’t help but lean in, and he parted his lips to hesitantly taste mine with the tip of his tongue. I opened mine in response, and John gasped wordlessly at the open invitation, and slipped his warm tongue in to explore my mouth.

 

_Oh._

 

The kiss took on a life of its own, deepening and setting fire to me as our tongues gently circled and danced. John’s fingers curled into my hair and we were breathing each other’s breath and tasting each other and pressing closer together and getting lost in each other and it was _wonderful_. I never knew that kissing could be so slow, so sensual – my limited experience ( _don’t think about Seb right now don’t think about him he’s not a part of this never never_ ) was nothing like this. It felt as though John was worshiping me, trying to divine my soul with his tongue and hands.

 

My heart was pounding harder than it ever had during any rooftop chase across London. Given that I was sitting quite still, this reaction seemed excessive. _Hmmm…clearly more data was needed._

 

I leaned into the kiss more eagerly, trying to memorize the sensation of John’s tongue sliding against my own. John’s hand stroked firmly down my back, drawing me closer to his compact, muscular body. I could hardly breathe, and felt my body shaking as if it would come apart. ( _How does he do this to me?_ ) He tasted of tea and shortbread biscuits, he smelled of sandalwood and that elusive woodsy tang that was just so very _John_. I stroked my fingers through his ( _incredibly soft_ ) hair, which caused him to shudder, and hum softly into my mouth. To my amazement, something decidedly like a _moan_ rose from deep in my own throat. _My self-control had clearly gone on extended leave._

 

Finally the kiss tapered off into softer, gentler kisses, lingering, breathless, _delicious_. We slowly pulled apart, to gaze into each other’s eyes. _Oh, those breathtaking eyes were so dark, so dilated and deep that I could drown in them._ John raised a shaking hand to my cheek, and I leaned into the caress from his warm, calloused palm.

 

His voice trembled. “Sherlock?”

 

I reached out and curled my fingers into the soft hair at the back of John’s neck, drawing him forward to lean our foreheads together. I smiled lovingly into his beautiful, beautiful hazel eyes. _My wonderful, brilliant John._ I whispered, “I knew you’d get there in the end.”

 

John’s eyes crinkled into little, laughing arcs as a bright, happy smile broke over his face. He kissed me again, slowly, languorously. Then he laughed, “What happened to being ‘married to your work’?”

I leaned in to press a line of soft kisses along his warm jawline. Then I murmured into his ear, “Don’t you know?”

He shivered from the rumbling in his ear ( _must note that reaction for future experimentation_ ) and shook his head. “Don’t I know what?”

I nibbled my way around his neck, then trailed more kisses up to his other ear. “You’ve been an integral part of my work since the night you shot the cabby. You _are_ my work, John.”

He pulled back to _beam_ at me, and then leaned in for another kiss. “Then don’t let me keep your from your work any longer, Detective.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it! Thanks so much to all who read, favorited and reviewed this story, as well as its companion piece from John’s POV, “Always the Last to Know,” including CryptoSquirrel, Vamsi, eohippus, ladypredator, Jodi2011, Fuseaction, sami1010220, Falling-Petal84, Lionesseye, MontyKissto, Elfenwesen, JocastaBleedsInk, Viconia, katiekat, kleinefee92, Belelaith and MirithGriffin. Special thanks to PrincessNala, and to the lovely, lovely Skyfullofstars. Thanks much.
> 
> I plan to write another story in this series, hopefully a rather smutty one next time. Wish me luck on that!
> 
> Reviews are deeply loved. Deeply.
> 
> Note on 3-5-11 - Evidently there was an error in uploading the file, and Anderson's snide comment got deleted. My aplogies - the scene doesn't make a lot of sense without that little paragraph in it. I've fixed it now. Sorry!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful Skyfullofstars, my fabulous beta on this one. Any errors that remain in here are entirely my own – Sky was very thorough!
> 
> Author note: I have based my Sherlock on a close relative with Asperger Syndrome. I don't see Sherlock as being a true sociopath/suffering from antisocial personality disorder. I do think he misses a lot of social cues, and has developed his "sociopath" persona as a defensive mechanism due to years of being misunderstood.
> 
> Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch or Mr. Freeman ever feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'm sure we could come to an arrangement. ;)


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